


A Tiny Dot On An Endless Timeline

by splittingsunlight



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, La Dispute (Band)
Genre: Character Study, Dialogue Light, Drabble, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, No Dialogue, One Shot, Short One Shot, Songfic, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 02:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20806919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splittingsunlight/pseuds/splittingsunlight
Summary: Alternative title: all the motions of ordinary loveA short as hell vignette into a moment in time between Aziraphale and Crowley.It's 4 am and I felt like doing a tiny tiny character study of Crowley based on the song Woman (in mirror) by La Dispute.





	A Tiny Dot On An Endless Timeline

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello thank you for reading this!! I will warn you though this fic hasn't been edited or anything I've just written it and literally uploaded it the moment I put the final full stop. 
> 
> Long story short They Are In Love and I Will Yell About It Through My Favourite Band. 
> 
> Feedback comments would mean the absolute world to me!!!
> 
> Enjoy the softest thing I've ever written!

There wasn't anything remarkable about that particular evening, but in retrospect that's exactly what made it so particularly remarkable.

The sun had lazily crept towards the horizon, leaving the sky to bruise and fade while the two lounged in companionable silence. Crowley nursed a wineglass between nimble fingers, occasionally sipping as he continued to gaze upon the sight before him.

Aziraphale sat, one leg tucked comfortably under the other, body leant against the armrest of an armchair that was weathered from decades of habit wearing into the tapestry of its upholstery. A throw is casually draped over his lap which creases and flows, cascading with warmth and contentment from Aziraphale, almost directly from his body which remained clad in tans and soft blues; his coat had found its way to the back of his desk chair early in the evening, like always. He read, pointless glasses perched on his nose, eyes following words, following sentences, following paragraphs on pages bound in leather and gold and dust. 

There was nothing new about this. Since the bookshop came to be Aziraphale's, Crowley had watched him read on countless occasions. Most anyone might assume you'd get bored of such repetition, even more so if one knew you to be an immortal celestial entity. 

However, someone truly deeply in love would tell you the exact opposite. 

°•°•°

The room they occupied in that moment had looked almost the same as the day it was first established, furniture scarcely moving, except the books and trinkets multiplying and hugging the space until you could only feel warmth and love and safety emanating from every surface, crevice, open space. 

That evening, sunken low into the couch opposite Aziraphale, Crowley made a small note to acknowledge the sensations all over again. It had been the same feeling for years now, so constant it stopped existing to the mind. Absently, Crowley thought of what life was like before the sensations felt in that room.

He couldn't remember.

But really, it wasn't the objects themselves that gifted the warmth. It was the way each item had been collected with care and dedication and then the way every one of those objects had been delicately placed into it's forever home by Aziraphale's very own hands. Ordinary objects made to shape a common space but only the soul of the owner, embedded into the fibres of the room could ignite the hearth of it. 

Crowley, bleeding into the warmth, sighed softly, barely conjuring a sound to go with the breath. 

Aziraphale turned the page to his book. 

To his side, a small table resolutely stands. Aziraphale's glass perched atop it, empty save the small and stubborn drop that stains the bottom of the glass a faded purple. 

Crowley sat up just the slightest bit, and barely breaking the silence of the room, uttered one simple question, "angel?" While tipping his nearly empty glass just so as Aziraphale looked up. 

The message is clear, and he replied, one hand casually resting over the book to keep the pages open, the other reaching for the glass to accept more wine from the bottle Crowley grabbed. 

So much, yet so little said in one utterance. All the superlatives are present in that moment. So much weight held by one word said so tenderly in the most casual of manners.

Aziraphale had given a small hum in return before bringing the renewed glass to his lips. Crowley, pouring himself a new glass, said nothing more and sat back into the cushions again to resume his watching. 

No church, temple, mosque could hold a candle to sanctity of that moment, he thought. Someone so sacrilegious as him was being given the holy privilege to peer through a door to the most sacred of spaces, that room; the most sacred of moments, the organic silence that caresses the negative space made by Aziraphale's resting shape while he reads. 

And that moment, Crowley thinks, belongs to only them. 

That moment is the most honest they both are. Aziraphale continued to read as Crowley contemplated the way of things in the small fragment of time. Aziraphale continued to read while eyes never wavered in their gaze, not minding one bit.

All the times before now suddenly felt like rehearsals to him. 

Nothing about the moment changed, of course, but Crowley is suddenly so very aware of the clock ticking on Aziraphale's desk, of the soft glow of yellow lights now that the sun has made it's good-byes, of the white noise of life continuing outside the confines of that room. 

He took another sip from his glass. 

Aziraphale was still sat with his book tucked in his lap, only he had been cradling his own wine to his chest between sips this time. Breaking away from his book, Aziraphale drags his eyes to glance at Crowley as he returned the glass to the table. For a brief moment, his hand laid flat on the table with the stem of the glass between thumb and forefinger.

Crowley took note of the brief moment, neither questioning nor challenging the state of affairs in that moment. The hand retracts and suddenly the throw is being jostled as Aziraphale shifted position, moving his hip slightly in before the calm and quiet is restored. 

Nothing is said out loud and that is truly, what felt the most profound. 

°•°•°•°

Crowley watched Aziraphale from across the room, and from that moment of sharpness, everything became a soft haze again as he stared.

It was a slow evening in that room, just like many days before and like many more to come, but there, in that exact moment, as Crowley watched his angel read into the evening with wine and warmth and comfort, it was those smallest sounds and movements that left the biggest echoes.


End file.
